SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops IV (22 page)

“Yeah, he does that, but he’s doing well, the Lieutenant. Helped me out a lot when I hit trouble in San Diego. I reckon he’s turned over a new leaf, so maybe he’ll work out after all.”

“Maybe,” Zeke grunted in disbelief. Two more Seals clambered into the vehicle, Brad Rose and Dan Moseley. Brad manned the .50 caliber Browning, and Nolan heard him going through the motions of checking the action of the gun, loading an ammunition belt and preparing to fire. Already Boswell’s Stryker was starting to roll out, almost before they were ready. The platoon leader’s voice came over their earpieces.

“Commo check, call in. Anyone having any problems?”

A chorus of replies, ‘loud and clear’ came over the comms net.

“Move out!”

The journey from Bagram Base to Kabul was a little over thirty kilometers, and Boswell’s Stryker kept up a fast pace along the busy highway. In less than a half hour, they were entering the outskirts of downtown Kabul. There was no immediate threat, and they kept their windows down to stare out at the bustling streets. Women in blue burqas, hideous and anonymous in their hot confinement, scurried to different destinations, carrying heavy loads in their arms or on their backs. Men sat on the pavements. Some of them in cafes, and many of them armed, but most of them were doing little or nothing. The scabrous buildings, many of them little more than ruins, were dilapidated, unpainted, and unrepaired after the Soviets had left their trail of destruction on the benighted country. The country that before the Islamic fanatics had begun to preach their bloody warpath to a paradise on earth, was in fact a paradise on earth, at least for some. For others, there was always hope. A hope that had disappeared, for the country had never recovered from the wars that began with the foreign invasions, wars that had seen tens of thousands of alien troops with their unfamiliar weapons of war and strange customs pouring into the country. From Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, Timur, the Mughal Empire, the Russian Tsars, the British Empire, and the brutal repression of the Soviet Union. Now there was a well-meaning coalition force of NATO troops, and the majority from the United States, following the Taliban’s ill-advised harboring of Osama bin Laden. Yet despite the all the effort, all they had to show was a country divided and ruined.

“Why the hell do they put up with this shit?” Zeke muttered. “It makes Mexico look like a good place to live. Christ, all the money they pour into this place, it sure doesn’t get any better.”

“Who knows? One thing’s for sure, these Islamic folks know how to take a country and turn it into a poverty stricken shithole. It’s not just Afghanistan.”

Zeke grinned and twisted the wheel to avoid yet another pothole in the rutted street.

“Unless they hit oil, in which case it becomes a wealthy shithole.”

Nolan thought of the oil-rich states he’d visited, the abject and miserable poverty of the average Joe, compared to the opulent lifestyles of the rich.

Why do they put up with it? That's the million-dollar question and a
question likely to go unanswered. But one thing's for sure, if the Islamic radicals stopped their unending, cruel, and pointless struggles, the money could be better spent. If their leaders ever allow it, and that just won’t happen.

He stared out of the window, feeling an unaccountable sadness for these poor bastards who put up with so much, and had so little to live for. Then he brought his mind back to reality.

These people, or some of them at least, will be more than happy to kill me.

There seemed to be more of them in the streets than he’d seen a few minutes before. The locals had sent word ahead. The Americans were coming.

They rounded a corner, and the crowds were thicker than ever, more menacing, and many of the men were armed. The way ahead was almost completely blocked. Boswell called up on the commo.

“We’re about a hundred meters from our objective, and it looks as if they’re filling the streets to prevent us moving forward. This is a Taliban area, so they tell me. It’s something of a no-go for ISAF troops. We’re about to change their way of thinking.”

“Go for it, Lt!” someone exclaimed on the commo.

Nolan and Zeke both exchanged a smile. Boswell continued.

“So button up, we’re going in ready for battle. If you do need to open fire, the ROEs are simple. Aim high, and try to avoid collateral casualties, but these people are the enemy. So don’t be fooled. They may look like civilians, but they’re well armed, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t a machine gun or RPG not too far away. If it looks like trouble, it probably is, so don’t spare the lead. Shoot the fuckers! Is that understood?”

There was a chorus of acknowledgments. Nolan nodded thoughtfully.

Boswell sure is changing fast.

“Move out!”

The Stryker’s engine roared, and it waded into the crowd of civilians blocking the way, but they weren’t civilians. Almost as if my magic, a score of men produced AKs from under their robes, and Nolan ducked instinctively as a hail of heavy 7.62mm rounds smashed into the side of the Humvee. Simultaneously, the street seemed to clear of people, and they saw in front of them a bus had been turned across it. The way was blocked. More rounds hit the vehicles, and Nolan saw a movement on a rooftop ahead of them. A missile shooter had appeared. They were aiming down at the Stryker, which had once again been forced to come to a stop.

“RPG! He’s on a rooftop fifty meters ahead, ten o’clock.”

Lucas replied, “I see him, I’m on it.”

Nolan watched the turret on top of the APC turn under remote control to point the barrel up at the rooftop. Before the missile could be launched, Lucas opened fire. The massive .50 caliber bullets were devastating. The first rounds struck the building just below the missileer, and Lucas walked the fire upward. The man and his weapon were torn apart, shredded by the massive firepower. In the window of a room below, a machine gun barrel appeared. Nolan was about to call it in, but Lucas had seen the threat. He shifted his aim, and the machine gunner withdrew his weapon and ducked down inside behind cover. He shouldn’t have wasted his time. The .50 caliber rounds slammed into and through the masonry, peppering the inside of the building, and he distinctly heard a chorus of screams as the fighters sheltering there were shredded. The turret turned again as Lucas looked for more targets of opportunity, but it seemed the building had been the main center of resistance. A few stray rounds were still hitting them, and .50 cal in Will’s Humvee, returned fire. The enemy gunfire died away as the surviving insurgents realized how useless it was to hide behind a thin wall from the .50 caliber gunfire that could smash through and rip apart anything in its path. Abruptly, the street echoed again to the deafening noise of continuous firing from Lucas’ heavy machine gun mounted in the Stryker turret. His target was the bus blocking the street, and the heavy rounds slammed into it, turning it into a twisted heap of wrecked junk. If anyone was sheltering behind it, they were dead.

“Move out!"

The Stryker pushed through the tangle of wreckage, and the remains of the bus were forced to the side of the street with a loud squealing of tortured metal. There in front of them, was the motorcycle repair shop, and with a taxi parked right outside. Fake taxis were one of the favored modes of transport for insurgents. They were anonymous and normally didn't rate a second glance. To one side of the building was a mosque, to the other, and empty, half ruined store.

“Vince, is that the vehicle we’re looking for?”

“That’s the one Lt. It’s a genuine licensed cab, and the registration matches what they recorded at the gate.”

“Good. Drive straight into that building, right through the front wall.”

“Lt, there’re some people sitting there, right out front.”

“In that case, they’d better move their asses out the way mighty fast. My guess is they’re there to watch the street, which makes them insurgents. If they don’t move, roll right over them. Lucas, stand by with that gun, but be careful who you aim at. That goes for all of you. If we lose Mr. Masih, this will all be for nothing. Both Humvees, stop outside the front and cover both ends of the street with the .50 cals. Chief, I want you in here to look for Danial when we dismount. Vince, if you can find a good firing position, take it and listen out for orders. Okay, let’s go, people! Let’s nail these bastards!”

He didn’t wait for acknowledgments, and the Stryker’s engine roared as it hurtled forward; twenty tons of armor plate and heavy weaponry, powered by a massive Caterpillar 350 horsepower engine. Dave Eisner obeyed Boswell’s orders, and his speed didn’t slacken as he threw the wheel over, and the APC headed straight for the front wall of the building. Ten men sat drinking at tables placed in the front. Their sneers at the American column, confident they were untouchable in their civilian guise, turned to alarm, and then they ran like rabbits. Chairs and tables scattered as the armored monster bore down on them, a leviathan monster from the furthest reaches of hell. It struck the front wall with a shattering crash, and the masonry caved in as if it was made of cardboard. The nose of the Stryker disappeared inside, and the entire vehicle was swallowed up, leaving behind piles of shattered masonry and smashed furniture. Nolan leapt out of the Humvee, clutching his MP7, and ran forward into the workshop. He almost laughed at the scene that greeted him. A couple of mechanics, both Afghans, had been working on two motorcycles that were partially stripped down. They were frozen; their mouths open in disbelief. He saw a head look in on the chaos from a door in the rear of the building and quickly duck back out of sight. Nolan pointed.

“There’s someone in there! I’m going after him!”

He sped through the workshop, ignoring the chaos, the shouts, and screams from inside and outside. Boswell had split Bravo into two units, one to deploy and cover any inbound threat from outside the building, the other to check out the two mechanics and search through the building. But Nolan didn’t wait for backup. The face he’d seen didn’t look too friendly, and he knew if they gave the enemy time to recover, they’d murder Danial out of hand. He ran to the doorway, paused and had the presence of mind to roll through it, landing a couple of meters inside, rising to sweep the room from a kneeling position. Bullets whizzed past his head, and he aimed almost reflexively at the shooter. It was a youth, probably no more than sixteen years of age, his face filled with hate. Nolan squeezed the trigger, fired a quick burst, and the boy went down. His AK47 fell to the ground on one side of him with a clatter. Nolan dashed over and kicked the gun away, but the boy was dead. He could see a narrow corridor leading further into the back of the building. Shouts and screams were coming from inside. He recognized the shouts. It was a voice he’d heard before. Danial Masih. He ran toward the direction of the noise and through a narrow door that was partially open. Inside, he found Danial. The Pakistani Christian was hogtied into a kneeling position. A gag had covered his mouth, but he’d managed to work it to one side so he could shout out. Over him, an Afghan stood with a huge sword raised high. He was about to behead him. Nolan didn’t hesitate. He fired a three-shot burst into the swordsman. He collapsed in a bloody heap, and his sword clanged to the floor, its blade unblooded. He ran over to Danial, put down his MP7 and lifted him up, taking out his combat knife to cut him free. He looked down at the elderly Pakistani.

“Danial, are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

The man’s eyes were filled with tears, overcome by the emotion of his near-execution and last-minute release. His eyes changed as he recognized his rescuer.

“Nolan!”

The Chief whirled. A guy had come into the room and stood with a huge revolver pointed at his head. The man gave him an evil leer.

“He will not cheat our justice, infidel. And now you will die with him.”

Nolan saw the hammer of the weapon draw back, and he threw the knife. He’d been aiming at the guys’ eyes. It was the best way to distract them. Nothing distracts a man so much as a steel object hurtling toward your eyes. The guy tried to dodge at the last second, but he was too late. The knife took him in the throat and penetrated through the back of his mouth, severing a vital artery in his neck and skewer clean out the back of his head. He looked astonished.

“Chew on that, buddy,” he muttered, as he retrieved the knife. He made sure the guy was dead and went back to help Danial.

“I thank you for this, Nolan,” he said hoarsely. “I thought they would kill me.”

He nodded. “Yeah, they had a pretty damn good try at it. What did they want? Do they know about Abbottabad?”

“No, that is the strange thing. An Afghan who cleans at the hospital was talking to me, and he was surprised when I told him I was a Christian. He asked why a Muslim Afghan was being treated inside a military facility. When I told him I was a Christian, he must have assumed I was a convert, and that I had deserted Islam. In their faith, the penalty for that is death.”